


And Oberon Shall Dance at Midnight

by kashinoha



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Book Spoilers, Footnotes, King!Stephen, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 15:17:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4184739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashinoha/pseuds/kashinoha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephen is persuaded to host Faerie’s first ball under his reign after avoiding it for one hundred years. He finds himself missing the people in England who helped him get to where he is now, and wishes he could thank them, somehow. But he can; this is Faerie, where time and space and the very fabrics of our reality are merely playthings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Oberon Shall Dance at Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for your kind reviews! I thought I'd do a piece on Stephen, since I felt the television adaption did him a disservice. Outwardly, Stephen is collected and composed, and all of his character conflict is internal--which made him extremely difficult to write. There are a lot of details from the novel in this one, so it helps to have read it. I hope you all enjoy!

**And Oberon Shall Dance at Midnight  
**

All characters © Susanna Clarke

 

 

 

There was a place that resided between England and everywhere else, and at the entrance of this place was a _brugh_ that was not really a _brugh._ An ordinary man could even see it, if he squinted across the horizon at the exact moment that twilight turned into dusk.

A _brugh_ was typically beset with twigs and leaves and moist grass, but this particular _brugh_ was the cleanest _brugh_ in all the land. Polished cobblestones graced the road with not a speck or spatter of mud, and if one were to enter they would find an even cleaner courtyard and a stable filled with horses whiter than newly shed snow.

The main hall was where the king of such a _brugh_ resided, and here we must not mistake his cleanliness for extravagance. Everything was of the finest quality, but, on the contrary, of simple design. The simplest thing in king’s court was the chair that sat upon a stone dais. Over the years people had sought to decorate this chair with wreaths of golden-berried fern leaves or silken tassel braids, but the owner of the chair had politely refused such regal accoutrements.

The chair in question held a handsome, bald man who once upon a time went by the name of Stephen Black. He is not called Stephen anymore, but we shall call him Stephen for old time’s sake.

At present, Stephen was cupping his chin in a brown hand and shaking his head. A woman stood at his side who had, only a moment ago, brought up a matter that was considered taboo in Renewed Hope.

“But next week marks the hundredth anniversary of your reign, my king,” the woman protested gently. Years ago she had worn a wig of beetles on her head, but had recently decided to adopt a more fashionable wig of holly leaves and black braided horsehair. “Surely a ball is in order.”

“A great deal of work is needed for a celebration, and a ball at that,” replied Stephen. He began to list all the preparations: “The cleaning, the organizing, the silverware…” After a moment he seemed to realize that he was complaining, which was a habit most unfitting to kings, and came back to himself. “Additionally, I do not care for such things.”

The woman with the holly-leaved wig laid a hand on Stephen’s shoulder. She was Stephen’s most trusted seneschal and knew his inner troubles better than most.1 “I know this is difficult for you, my king, but you must remember, a person can never have his fair share of balls,” she told him. “Especially when one has been neglecting them for one hundred years.”

“I have had other things on my mind,” said Stephen, looking away.

“Your dealings with Blue Castles and the City of Iron Angels2 are important, certainly, but you should not allow them to consume all of your time,” urged the woman with the holly-leaved wig. “Think of the joy such a festivity would bring! We will see to the arrangements.”

At this, Stephen managed a small smile. “You know I cannot allow _that,_ madam,” he said. Despite being a king for some time butlery had never quite left his blood. Stephen had instructed all of Renewed Hope’s vassals, valets, handmaidens and manservants in the craft of keeping things in order. Rule one of the house was if you could not tie a proper knot, you had a meeting with the Black King.

The woman with the holly-leaved wig tutted. “Just this once let us do something for you, my king,” she said. “We will have a ball to-morrow night in your name, and it will be the most splendid one in the land.”

Stephen was about to protest that to-morrow was too soon, but then he remembered that in Faerie, to-morrow could mean to-morrow, or it could mean in a week or a month or a year. He sighed. “Very well,” he said.

The woman with the holly-leaved wig put a hand on the back of the royal chair and peered at Stephen. “Something still troubles you, King?” she asked. It was closer to a statement than a question, and Stephen sighed again.

“The idea of a ball reminds me of when I was an Englishman long ago,” he began. “I do not miss those days of having people gape and gawk at me like a menagerie attraction, so please believe me when I say I am happier here. But at times, there are those who I wish I could see once more.”

“I rarely hear you speak of such things,” marveled the woman with the holly-leaved wig. “Are these people you wish to see women, perhaps?”

Stephen nodded. “Women, men. Some of whom were dear friends and some of whom I only encountered once or even not at all, but who I feel connected to in some way.” He turned to look at the woman with the holly-leaved wig. “They are the people who aided me in coming to where I sit now. I feel…” he shook his head. “I feel I never got to properly thank them for what they did, even if they are not aware of their own partaking.”

The woman with the holly-leaved wig smiled. “Why do you not invite them, then?”

“Invite them? They are all at least a half-century in their graves!” exclaimed Stephen.

“And you view this as an obstacle?” the woman asked, laughing good-naturedly. “My dear king, sometimes you forget that you are in Faerie! It is quite endearing. Do you not think the Heavens would bend for you, if you asked nicely? The reality of mortals is not ours. Here, every tree has a name and every particle of air is a door to times of the Past and the Future. It would be but a simple task for us to summon your desired guests.”

Stephen pursed his lips. “I do not wish to disturb their sleep,” he said. “And I know of one who particularly detests balls.”

“We shall make them comfortable,” the woman with the holly-leaved wig reassured him.

“Thank you, madam3,” Stephen said, taking the woman’s hand and bestowing a slight kiss to her knuckles, as was customary in Renewed Hope to thank a server to the king. “And what will become of my friends, once the ball is at its end?”

“Oh, they will be returned, of course,” the woman replied, “and they shall not remember a thing.”

Stephen found that a little sad.

 

 

 

The entire kingdom of Renewed Hope sparkled. This is not meant in the metaphorical sense, but in the sense that the sky and the buildings were literally enchanted to reflect the moonlight so that they winked and twinkled at any passerby to instill them with good spirits.

Stephen was forbidden from overseeing the arrangements to his own ball, including the spell, which was both charming and unbelievably frustrating for him. Would the waiters know the difference between fish forks and meat forks, and be able to fold the silken nappes into a Fleur-de-Lis pattern? Would the sash windows be wiped down and tulipwood-veneered stands be provided for the _concerto grosso_ players? And, most importantly, could he count on his seneschals to summon the correct Englishmen and women?

Though it pained him, Stephen decided to put faith in his subjects and all that he had taught them.

On the afternoon of the ball, Stephen was lurking outside his court when a black-and-white puss suddenly dashed out the door. Stephen jumped back, startled. The cat was pursued by two young manservants, both of whom looked shocked and delighted to be chasing it. Stephen watched as the manservants chased the cat into the courtyard this way and that, yelling and hooting and displaying rather un-servant-like behavior until the larger of the manservants managed to scoop it up into his arms. The cat mewled once before becoming quite comfortable in the boy’s arms.

“We have an early guest, my king!” the manservant holding the cat exclaimed, walking over to where Stephen stood.

“Indeed?” Stephen peered at the cat. “I did not know we had cats in Faerie.”

“Is that what it is, then?”

The cat gave another meow, and the other manservant frowned. “He declares his name is Bullfinch,” he said.4

Stephen brought a hand up to his chin. “You can understand cat, then?” The shorter manservant shrugged, as if to say he understood cat like he understood anything else.

“I wonder where such a fine creature hails from,” said the larger manservant, stroking Bullfinch’s back. The cat meowed again and began to purr.

“Apparently, from a land called Soho-square,” the other manservant told Stephen. “I have never heard of such a place. Is it in Gridelin, you suppose?” 5

As the manservants debated amongst each other Stephen stood, frozen. This cat was most likely from England, and was most likely dead.6 Which meant that the seneschals’ spell was already in effect.

Stephen was well aware that magic operated in ways that one could not always predict, but if a cat was just the first of his late guests, then Stephen really did not know who to expect.

 

 

 

When he entered the main hall, he quickly realized that all of his worry had been for naught. To describe everything here would take hours, so we shall settle for describing the tapestry. Even Stephen, now accustomed to seeing all sorts of fabrics, was awe-struck by it. The colours reminded him of evergreens and dream-swirls flowing from ceiling to floor, and the floor itself was burnished so glossily it looked nigh transparent. Stephen found himself deeply moved by the meticulous care that had gone into this preparation.

“I take it you are pleased, King,” said the woman with the holly-leaved wig, breezing by him with a candelabra in her hand.7 Candles lit almost every corner of the hall, and Stephen was not surprized to see that their flames burnt every shade of the rainbow (this of course included all of the hundreds of colours in-between).

Stephen could only nod.

 

 

 

An hour into the festivities, Stephen’s dreadful memories of past macabre balls had all but vanished. He wore a robe of aubergine velvet woven with what his advisors had told him was comet dust and the caresses of five hundred mothers. For understandable reasons Stephen had protested against the diadem that marked him as King, but every time he removed it the diadem seemed to magic itself back on, and eventually Stephen had given up.

The _concerto grosso_ ensemble was a lively and upbeat group of viols, horns, and harpsichord. Throughout the evening they played selections that had been plucked straight from the music tree out back and that were extremely pleasing to dance to. 8 Guests kept filing in, and Stephen began to worry that the hall would not hold so many people. After some time he witnessed that no matter how many of Renewed Hope’s citizens entered, the hall seemed to stretch larger and larger to accommodate them.

Stephen had not yet joined the festivities, but at the urges of others finally permitted himself to step into the crowd during a pause in the music. He passed by a guest who wore a hat that held a bonsai tree and live goldfinches and stopped to admire the engravings painted on the side of the harpsichord.

“My, what a lovely party,” a man exclaimed, drawing up to Stephen’s right. The tails on his coat mirrored his excitement, wagging like the tail of a dog with a bone in its mouth. Stephen opened his mouth to reply, and then he realized just who it was he was about to grace with it.

“Do you not dance, my king?” the man asked, tilting his head.

Stephen blinked. “Thomas, is that really you?”

“Aye,” the man replied. “It alarmed me when you stopped coming the third Tuesdays, my king, but now that I see what has so occupied your time I can rest with ease!” Thomas had been the Duke of Portland’s coachman and a valued member of the Peep-O-Day Boys.

“As can I, seeing you here and well,” said Stephen, shaking his head. “Yet why not address me with the name that you remember me by?”

“And be disrespectful in such a manner?” Thomas grinned and waggled his finger. “I was raised to be better than that, my king.”

Stephen frowned. “But I am not your king, Thomas,” he said.

“Tonight you are,” replied Thomas, bowing before Stephen. His tails flapped pleasantly. Stephen, not knowing quite what to say to that, decided to inquire about Thomas’s family.

“How fares your sister?”

Thomas smiled again. “Splendid. She married a fellow who does accounting, you know.”

“Thomas,” Stephen began, unsure of how to continue. “Do you, ah. The year is, I mean to say, are you aware that you are—“

“Dead? Oh, certainly!” Thomas clasped his hands together. “And I am aware that I must go back at the turn of the day, so I plan to drink as much of that amethyst wassail as I possibly can!”

 

 

 

As Stephen wended his way through the ballroom he encountered others from London, including the rest of the Peep-O-Day Boys, his old home tutors, and the servants of 9-Harley Street. They appeared just as Stephen cared to remember them, though with a few slight changes here and there. Curiously, none of them seemed especially surprized that they were dead. They informed Stephen of their lives and what became of them over the years with a kind of nonchalance that made Stephen suspect that the afterlife was a rather peaceful place.

Mr Honeyfoot and Mr Segundus were talking with John Childermass, who was leaning against the east wall with a glass of claret in one hand. Mr Segundus looked the same as ever, though there was more colour to his cheeks and he did not look as lean as Stephen recalled. Childermass, on the other hand, appeared pale and almost skeletal.

“What happened to you?” Mr Segundus inquired, concerned.

“Cholera outbreak, 1849,” Childermass replied. He gave a shrug. “There could have been better ways to go.”

“Ah.”

Stephen greeted the three of them and they all bowed, smiling. He thanked them each for coming and asked how they had fared after the Revival.

“I ended up a practical magician after all,” Mr Segundus told him, looking proud. “And my books sold quite well. You should have seen England after you left, my king! There was magic everywhere.” His smile faded. “Childermass informs me that there is another war going on. Perhaps magic is being used on the battlefield as we speak.”

“Fortunately, we shall not be around to see it,” said Childermass, with a wry smile.9

“Where are Norrell and Strange?” Honeyfoot asked, looking around. “Are they here as well?”

“Somewhere about, I suppose,” said Stephen. “No one really knows.” He doubted very much those two would make an appearance here. For all he knew they were still alive, touring Agrace or supping with the Raven King himself. Just then someone took his arm, and he heard his real name for the first time in a century. Stephen turned around to see Lady Pole and Mrs Strange, clothed in matching white rose gowns. It was the Lady who had spoken.

“Lady Pole,” Stephen greeted, delighted.

“Wintertowne,” Lady Wintertowne corrected, with a smile. She looked around the hall, sighing. “This certainly brings back memories, does it not, Stephen?”

 “I had not expected you to be so at ease in a place like this,” remarked Stephen. He gestured to the ladies’ gowns. “And in such garb.”

“We were buried with them,” said Mrs Strange. With a slim hand she plucked a rose from her dress, twirling it between her fingers. “They will always be a part of our lives that we cannot escape. Your kingdom is quite splendid, I must say.”

“Thank you, Mrs Strange,” said Stephen.

“Very different from the last time we visited, is it not, Emma?”

Lady Wintertowne gave a nod. “I tended to a garden,” she told Stephen. There were forsythias in her hair. “And I never remarried. My time was much better spent slandering those who had silenced me—quite effectively, I might add.” She smiled, suddenly shark-like. “I was always superb with a quill pen.”

“I am happy to hear that, my Lady,” Stephen said.

“Oh but you are a king now, so you must call me Emma to-night!” Lady Wintertowne reached out to touch the diadem on Stephen’s head.

Stephen almost bowed, and caught himself just in time. “It is habit, I am afraid.”

“He never did come back,” Mrs Strange said, suddenly.

“Who, Mr Strange?” Stephen asked.

“I returned to curating my brother’s parish, and as the wife of the famous magician I was able to live more than comfortably,” Mrs Strange continued. “But he never did return.” Lady Wintertowne touched her arm gently, despite the fact that Mrs Strange looked neither upset nor joyed at the fact.

“Come,” she told them. “Let us dance together once more.”

The music started up again.

 

 

 

After dancing, Stephen became quite thirsty. He recalled the suggestions of Thomas and decided to try the amethyst wassail. He did not know quite what to make of the blue man stationed by the drinks, for his dress was in desperate need of tidying up, but Stephen hesitated in drawing his attention because he could not seem to remember the man’s name.

Then the man scratched at his wiry beard and Stephen got it. It was a wonder how he could have forgotten. “Good evening, Vinculus,” he said.

Vinculus turned. He was wearing an open-throated blouse, a leather belt with holes in the shapes of the constellations, and breeches that glittered in the candlelight. In the warmth of the hall he had removed a velvet frock coat the exact hue of November hail and was delighting himself in the bear’s hide gin and roasted pheasant.

“Nameless King,” he greeted, mouth full of pheasant.

“Allow me to fetch you a cravat and tidy your blouse,” Stephen said.

Vinculus swallowed his pheasant. “Why?”

“Do you not wish to look presentable?” Stephen asked him, an eyebrow raised.

“Don’t matter either way,” said Vinculus, shrugging. “The way I see it, a man can enjoy a banquet perfectly well whether he is clad in a silk robe or a loincloth.” He said this with such conviction that Stephen was almost apt to agree, but caught himself at the last moment.

“Come, please,” Stephen said. “I shall fix your dress.” He led Vinculus out of the hall and down a corridor outside the pantry, where he had a waiter fetch him a wet nappe and a muslin neck cloth.

“So this is Faerie, eh?” Vinculus inquired, as Stephen dabbed spots of oil off of his lapel.

“It is,” Stephen agreed.

“It is not so terribly awful.”

“I am glad you think so,” replied Stephen. “It used to be a lot worse.” He finished wiping and went to button Vinculus’s blouse, noting the runes that graced his chest. “You told me the prophesy of John Uskglass, did you not?”

“I did. It used to be on my skin, like the blue you see now,” replied Vinculus. “When the events came to pass, though, they changed to something else.”

“What does it say now?”

“According to Childermass?” Vinculus smirked. “When I found myself here to-night he informed me that I am now a manual for making cocoa-roasted shillings! Ha, ha!” 10

Stephen tied Vinculus’s neck cloth. “How interesting,” he said. “And what became of you, if you do not mind me asking?”

“We gave England the King’s Book,” replied Vinculus. “And that is a rather long story, and I know you have to be getting back to—“he flapped his hand—“Kingly Matters.”

“May I ask what happened to the book when you…”

“When I croaked?” Vinculus grinned. “Well, Nan became with child some years back,” he said. “Can you imagine, me a father? We had a baby girl, and guess what sort of birthmarks she had?”

“So the Raven King’s Book lives on,” Stephen mused. He patted down Vinculus’s blouse and buttoned the frock coat over it. “There. You look splendid, sir.”

“You make an odd sort of king, what with tidying up your guests,” Vinculus remarked. “I like you.”

Stephen found he returned the sentiment, in an odd sort of way. The man was unquestionably uncouth and seemed to eschew with glee any sort of propriety or decorum, but there was something witty and cheerful about him all the same.

 

 

 

Stephen spotted a gentleman that he had heard of but had never met conversing gaily with a group of women in peacock feather gowns. The man was small, dark-haired and flush faced, but as Stephen peered closer he saw that the flush was simply rouge.

Somehow, he knew the man’s name to be Christopher Drawlight. One of the two men who had been at Norrell’s side.11 Stephen watched as Drawlight threw back his head and laughed loudly at something. He shook his own head.

As detestable as the man may have been in life, he had not deserved such a death. The only explanation Stephen could imagine for Drawlight’s presence to-night was that deep down, someone had thought Christopher Drawlight should, at the least, receive one final party.

 

 

 

The midnight hour drew near. Time was a thing in Faerie that was bendable, like salt taffy, so no one ever bothered with timepieces. But magic, Stephen’s seneschals told him, magic sometimes needed limitations. Like the tale of Cinderella at the ball, Stephen’s enchantment would fade at the turn of the day. For Stephen’s courtesy more than for their own, his subjects had hung a smooth, glass clock from the furthest window. The clock itself was made of black obsidian taken from one of the volcanos in Agrace and its circumference was that of a small town block. Gold and cobalt-plated numerals adorned its face.

After a kind but rather lengthy conversation with Sir Walter Pole, Stephen stepped outside. He wiped a bead of sweat from his shining brown crown and was about to take a promenade of the courtyard when something caught his eye.

The stable door was open.

Stephen’s first thought was of Bullfinch, but after deliberating he concluded that a cat—even a mystical one, could not manage to push open doors of such girth.

“Hello?” Stephen called, stepping into the stables. Only whinnies greeted him. Stephen folded his arms, quite perplexed. There was no one here. Perhaps earlier somebody had broken in and had stolen something. Though Stephen wracked his brain, he could not think of anyone who would do such a thing, and on such a night at that. Just to be safe, he swept his eyes about the stable to conclude if anything were missing. He looked at his white horses, counting them to make sure all eight were present, and felt his breath catch in his throat.

There were nine horses in the stable.

Slowly, Stephen walked to the end of the stable, moonbeams lighting up the walls and straw around him. There was a mare in the last stall, where no stall had existed previously. She threw back her head and snorted at Stephen when he approached, but then quieted and bumped her nose against his hand. And, like he had with Drawlight, Stephen _knew._

“Firenze,” he whispered, eyes wide.

There was a tiny black hole just under her right ear. Stephen looked at it and felt tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. He hastily brought out a ‘kerchief and dabbed at his eyes, laughing despite everything.

“They even invited my horse to the ball,” Stephen exclaimed, stroking Firenze’s muzzle and beaming. “There, there,” he murmured to Firenze. “It is alright. I have missed you.”

Firenze gave a snort. Stephen took it as confirmation that she had indeed missed him too.

“I am the King of Renewed Hope now,” he told the horse. “Which means I no longer drive carriages.”

In the solitude of the stable, Stephen recounted how he came to rule over Faerie, all the while stroking Firenze’s mane and neck. He did not know how much time had passed before a shadow fell over the hay and the silhouette of someone appeared in the stable doorway. It was Lady Wintertowne.

“Forgive me, Stephen,” she said, “but you are needed inside. The ball is almost over, and a guest has arrived late.” Her gaze fell on Firenze, and she put a hand to her mouth. “I remember her,” Lady Wintertowne whispered. She walked over, unmindful of the sticky straw and the smell, and held her hand out to the horse.

“The places she used to take us,” Stephen remarked.

“Yes,” Lady Wintertowne replied with a smile. She regarded Stephen with a curious look. “You know, Stephen, after my enchantment I swore to oppose magic and all those who practised it,” she began. “Yet, I helped fund Mr Segundus and Mr Childermass’s York Society of Learned Magicians. And here I am, enjoying myself in a place that once proved the bane of my existence.” Lady Wintertowne gazed upon Firenze again and laughed, humored.

“How splendid it is, Stephen, that this magic should let our connections transcend lifetimes!”

 

 

 

Stephen sat in his chair, dais overlooking the final minutes of what had turned out to be a fabulous ball. The woman with the holly-leaved wig called the attention of everyone present, requesting homage to the King of Renewed Hope. Applause swept through the hall like wind on a mountaintop, and Stephen, gazing upon the faces of his subjects and his old friends, could not have been happier.

“We have brought in a guest from lands far away,” the woman with the holly-leaved wig announced, motioning that everyone in company should form a circle on the ballroom floor. “And thus,” she concluded, “the king shall have his final dance.”

A guest? thought Stephen. His eyes scanned the hall. Who was he possibly missing?

“It is so nice to see you, my king.”

Stephen’s gaze fell on a woman in the middle of the circle with long brown ringlets. His mouth dropped open and he forgot momentarily that he was being watched by hundreds of people.

Stephen recovered himself quickly. He rose and held out his arms, smiling wide. “Likewise, Mrs Brandy,” he said.

 Mrs Brandy stepped forward as Stephen descended the dais. Her dress was a two-tiered gown of Caribbean waters wreathed with paper-thin lace the colour of morning dew on grass. Draped about her head was a dreamcatcher headdress.

The viols and harpsichord began to play a stately _Allemande,_ and Stephen offered his hand.

“I am glad you did not return to Africa,” Mrs Brandy said, as they danced. Her blue eyes were stunning against the silk of her gown, and Stephen found he could not look away.

“I am sorry I did not come back for you,” said Stephen. He admitted, “In truth I wanted to, but I did not know how and it would have been most rude of me to disrupt your business on St. James’s Street.”

“My dear, beloved king,” Mrs Brandy said, shaking her head and smiling. “My _Stephen._ Did I not tell you I would go anywhere for your sake?”

“You did, Mrs Brandy.”

“I would not have minded being whisked off to a fairy land,” she mused, “but Queening, that is another business entirely. I would have been rubbish at it, lest the kingdom be in a dearth of meat-pies and preserves! You are not, I presume?”

“No, ma’am,” Stephen replied. He twirled Mrs Brandy around and the ends of her gown swished gently against his ankles. He said, “Truthfully, I am glad you are here now.”

“I fear I must take my leave soon,” said Mrs Brandy, smile waning. “Tell me, Stephen,” she began, leading his movements, “Did you, that is—“she cleared her throat and pinkened. “I fancied you a great deal, back then. Did you ever…reciprocate?”

Stephen allowed a few dance steps to pass in silence before he spoke again. “My apologies. Had I not been under the enchantment of a wicked fairy, I surely would have noticed,” he replied. “And…had it been a different time, then yes, I believe I would have.”

The music wound down and the dance came to a close. Mrs Brandy took his hand in her own and lightly kissed his fingers.

“That is all I wished to know,” she whispered, as applause erupted around them.

At that moment the volcanic glass clock struck the hour. Only, instead of bells, Stephen heard the sound of singing. He had witnessed a fairy singing once or twice before, but a whole choir of them was something to behold indeed! Even the stones of the hall seemed to perk up, listening.

Stephen looked from Mrs Brandy at his side to Thomas to Lady Wintertowne to Childermass to Vinculus, to all of them, and in that moment Stephen knew he loved them. The singing grew in volume. He raised his hand, as if to touch those who were now beginning to look transparent, to wave goodbye, to bid them adieu. Before his very eyes they faded, still smiling.

Stephen found he was smiling as well, even if there were tears in his eyes.

 

 

_End._

 

 

* * *

Footnotes:

 

1 Stephen had several seneschals, and most of them were women. Stephen found they understood Faerie a great deal more than him, and their intelligence and command over the lands knew no bounds.

2 Kingdoms the Gentleman with the Thistle-down hair formerly ruled. When he died, there was no one to take over, so Stephen had been working to find new monarchs for these kingdoms.

3 All of Renewed Hope’s residents have names, but we do not use them here because they are impossible to pronounce, as _Sidhe_ names often are. Stephen’s syntax is still a tad clunky, but he navigates the Faerie language quite well. After all, he has had plenty of time.

4 This is in fact Jeremy Johns’ cat.

5 Gridelin is a town in the mountains outside Agrace. In 1207, an anonymous magician placed a curse on it to anthropomorphize all of the wildlife within its walls. No one in Faerie knows why this spell was cast, nor how long it will remain in effect.

6 Erwin Schrödinger would have had a field day, had it not been for the fact that his equation would not exist for another eighteen years.

7 Stephen had replaced all of the Gentleman’s tallow candles, which had been made chiefly from the fat of former human monarchs, with beeswax candles.

8 The Gentleman once mentioned such a tree to Arabella Strange (see _Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell,_ p. 364). Stephen decided to have one planted in the hills surrounding his castle.

9 Childermass’s strange insight into matters after his time really has no explanation. However, giving his allegiance, it is doubtful the Raven King would have let him die as any other mortal would. One can only suspect.

10 All of the Englishmen at Stephen’s ball are memory representations, enhanced with time and the magic of the seneschals. No one save Childermass can actually read the King’s Letters. This, combined with the fact that there is no written language in Faerie, results in why the King’s Letters on Vinculus’s body appear as nonsense.

11 The other one, Henry Lascelles, remains alive in the Kingdom of Plucked Eye and Heart. It is likely he has forgotten his name at this point.

 


End file.
